Fine, except that he didn’t have Fazio’s cell phone number. As for Sanfilippo’s number being in the phone book, hah! He opened the directory listlessly, and just as listlessly began searching for the number. It was there. But why, when looking for a number, does one always start from the premise that it’s not in the phone book? Mimi answered on the third ring.
“Who’s this?”
Mimi had answered in a low, cautious voice. Apparently he’d been thinking that the only person who might call would be a friend of Sanfilippo. Treacherously, Montalbano egged him on. He was brilliant at changing the sound of his voice, and assumed the tone of a belligerent punk.
“No, tell me who you are, asshole.”
“First tell me who you are.”
Mimi hadn’t recognized him.
“I’m looking for Nene. Put him on.”
“He’s not home. But you can give me a message and I‘ll—”
“Well, if there’s no Nene, then this must be Mimi.”
Montalbano heard a string of curses, then the irritated voice of Augello, who’d recognized him.
“Only a lunatic like you would think of fucking around on the phone at six in the morning. What’s your problem anyway? Why don’t you see a doctor?”
“Find anything?”
“Nothing. If I’d found something, I’d have called you, wouldn’t I?”
Augello was still upset over the prank.
“Listen, Mimi, since we’ve got something important to do this evening, I thought it’d be better if you leave off what you’re doing and go rest.”
“What do we have to do this evening?”
“I’ll tell you later. We’ll meet back at the office around three in the afternoon. Is that all right?”
“Yeah, that’s all right. ‘Cause after looking at all these tapes, I’m starting to feel like becoming aTrappist monk. Tell you what: I’ll look at two more, and then go home.”
The inspector hung up and dialed the office.
“Hallo! Hallo! Vigata Police talking! Whoozis onna line?”
“Montalbano.”
“Poissonally in poisson?”
“Yes. Tell me something, Cat. I think I remember you saying you had a friend in the Montelusa forensics lab.”
“Yessir, Chief. Cicco de Cicco. He’s a rilly tall guy, a Neapolitan, in the sense that he’s from Salerno, a real heart-warmer, sir. Just tink, one morning he calls me up and says...”
If he didn’t stop him at once, Catarella was liable to tell him Cicco de Cicco’s life story.
“Listen, Cat, you can tell me another time. What time does he usually get to the office?”
“He usually falls in roundabout nine o‘clock. Say, like, in maybe two hours.”
“This De Cicco works in the photo lab, right?”
“Yessir, Chief.”
“I want you to do me a favor. Ring De Cicco and arrange to meet him. Sometime this morning I want you to bring him a—”
“I can’t bring to ‘im, Chief.”
“Why not?”
“If you want, I’ll bring him whatever you want anyway, but De Cicco’s not gonna be there no way this morning. De Cicco told me hisself in poisson last night when he called me.”
“So where’s he going to be?”
“In Montelusa. At police headquarters. They’re all meeting together.”
“What for?”
“Mr. Commissioner brung a rilly rilly big crimologogist from Rome who’s asposta give ‘em a licture.”
“A lecture?”
“Yessir. An’ De Cicco tol’ me the licture’s gonna show ‘em how they’re asposta do when they have to do peepee.”
Montalbano staggered.
“What the hell are you saying, Catarella!”
“I swear it, Chief.”
Then the inspector had a flash.
